


Sansa the Vampire Slayer

by Wavelet



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:32:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4569756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wavelet/pseuds/Wavelet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Sansa wanted to do was marry her prince and live happily ever after.  Unfortunately, destiny had other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa I

**Sansa the Vampire Slayer**

 

“ _In every generation, there is a Chosen One. She alone will stand against the vampires, the others and the forces of Winter. She is the Slayer.”_

_\- Septon Barth, Vampires, Dragons, and the Long Night: Their Unnatural History_

 

**Sansa I**

 

“That was my lady's sister you were hitting, do you know that?” A bright bud of blood blossomed where his sword pressed into Mycah's flesh, and a slow red line trickled down the boy's cheek.

“Stop it!” Arya screamed. She grabbed up her fallen stick.

Sansa was afraid. “Arya, you stay out of this.”

“I won't hurt him... much,” Prince Joffrey told Arya, never taking his eyes off the butcher's boy.

Arya went for him. 

Sansa slid off her mare, but she was too slow – five paces away from Arya, and her sister was already swinging her stick towards Joffrey's head with both hands.

Then, somehow, she was right in front of Arya, effortlessly catching her sister's stick in her left hand, an instant before it would have struck the prince. Sansa stared at her hand in wide-eyed disbelief. Arya stared at Sansa in wide-eyed disbelief. Only the prince was moving. Having felt Sansa's soft hand brush against the hair on the back of his head, he turned to look over his shoulder, caught sight of the tableau inches away from him, and his lips twisted into a furious scowl. 

Forgetting the butcher's boy entirely – who ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him – Joffrey turned to face Arya, his sword, Lion's Tooth, pointing forward menacingly.

“Did you just try to hit me?”

He frightened Sansa. His handsome face wearing such a cruel expression, he almost looked like he might hurt Arya. 

“My prince, w-we hadn't finished our ride,” she interjected, hoping that the uncertain smile on her face might calm him – might bring back the gallant prince she loved. “I was most impre-”

“Shut up!” he snapped, turning his furious emerald eyes on her, freezing her in place. “I was addressing your lady sister.” 

He turned his eyes back towards Arya, looking almost predatory, as the nine year-old girl facing him shrank away from his steel sword. But then a terrible thing happened. Arya's eyes narrowed, and she shouted at Prince Joffrey. 

“You were hurting, Mycah! You're awful!”

She could feel Arya trying to pull her stick out of Sansa's hand, but Sansa was easily able to keep her grip on the piece of wood. However, Joffrey noticed her efforts as well, and smirked.

“Do you know what the penalty is for striking a prince, Stark girl? It's a hand. So, for trying to strike a prince, what do you think? A finger?” 

After one last futile tug, Arya finally gave up on freeing her stick from Sansa's hand, stepping away from both Joffrey's sword and her own weapon. 

“But I am a merciful prince, so, if you get down on your knees and beg, then I'll consider overlooking it this time.”

Why was he acting this way? This was not her prince. Then he was stalking around Sansa, towards Arya, and her sister was starting to look frightened again. 

She wanted to cry. 

“Stop it. Please, Joffrey, it's done,” but he wasn't listening, and Arya was retreating from his threatening sword towards the treeline, almost shaking. 

Sansa's eyes caught a blur of something grey, sprinting through the bushes towards both of them, and her instincts practically screamed for her to move. Then everything happened very quickly. In truth, it was as she later told the king. She was not quite sure what had happened, as what she remembered could only have been some sort of fever dream

She certainly could not have sprinted across the clearing in the blink of an eye, blocked Nymeria's teeth with Arya's stick, and then pivoted on one foot to kick her prince's Lion's Tooth out of his hand and into the river with her other foot. That would be ridiculous. 

So, mayhaps, her prince merely tripped, and hurt his hand catching himself. His sword likely fell out of his grip and flew the ten or so feet away into the river. As for Nymeria, well, a stick was somewhat like a bone, and hounds were fond of bones, so, maybe that explained it.

Certainly, there was no cause for her poor prince to flinch away from her, looking so hateful, when she knelt down, sobbing over his injured hand. 

“Oh, Joffrey, your poor hand,” she had cried, trying to take his hand in her own.

“Get away from me, you-you-you kicked me!” he'd shouted, clearly distraught. But then he had most ungallantly struck her face with the back of his hand, and she didn't know what to do.

She had run off, tears streaming down her cheeks, but maybe even the blow had been a fever dream, for, by the time she found her father, there was no sign of a bruise on her face. He had comforted her, as she cried about how Arya had spoiled her time with the prince, and how her wolf – and father knew the wolves frightened her – had run at her.

When Arya finally rode into the Crossroads Inn with Sansa's horse, nearly half an hour later, father had been wroth with her, but that only lasted until a messenger from the king appeared, demanding that she and Arya be brought before him. Joffrey had said the most horrible things – that she and Arya tried to hurt him – but Arya was just as bad, spouting a bunch of nonsense, and Sansa was so confused. All she knew for certain was that she could not possibly have injured her sweet prince. 

In the end, the king had thankfully dismissed the matter, seeming more annoyed at the prince for losing his sword to a couple of girls than he was with her or Arya. She had gone to bed, hoping that everything might be all right again in the morning, but nothing got better at all.

The Hound had apparently run down Arya's butcher's boy in the night, which Sansa thought sounded unjust, but Arya blamed her for his death, calling Sansa a liar. But she wasn't a liar. Arya was the liar. Jeyne agreed with her, and even father had admitted that Arya's account sounded a bit unbelievable.

Joffrey had been unbearably hateful, every time she approached him, and even the queen started looking at Sansa askance after she had accidentally ripped the door off the queen's wheelhouse. That was not her fault though. Clearly, the door was just poorly made.

Nymeria was even worse. Sansa still resented the wolves. There had been five wolves – one for each Stark – but every one of them hated her. Shaggydog had nearly bitten her finger off the first time she tried to pick him up. So, in the end, every single Stark, and even one Snow, had gotten a direwolf, except for Sansa. It wasn't fair, and now Nymeria was constantly following her around, baring his teeth at her and frightening her horse. Sometimes she wished the stupid mutt would go drown herself in a river. 

The dreams were the worst of all. No princes, no comely knights, no fair ladies: just blood, blood, blood, and monsters straight out of Old Nan's tales stalking her every night. One night, she even died in her dreams – strangled to death in a septry by a blonde man with a terribly ugly face.

She had never been happier than when they finally arrived at King's Landing: the city of her dreams. And, naturally, she meant the good dreams which she used to have, not her more recent collection of nightmares. Of course, there were some who said that the old king had been a vampire, who drank the blood of the living, but everyone knew he was dead now. Besides, father had always said that those tales were just the foolish superstitions of old wives and idle gossips.

This was to be her home now: a grand city, beneath the shining Red Keep upon Aegon's Hill. This was where she and her prince would learn to love one another, and then one day rule side by side, as the king and queen. From the moment she rode through the dragon gate, marveling at the five dragons carved into its crimson stonework, she knew that all her troubles were at an end.


	2. Sansa II

 

**Sansa the Vampire Slayer**

**Sansa II**

  
Father came down to breakfast the morning after their arrival in King's Landing looking weary, but still managed a smile when he caught sight of she and Arya in the Small Hall.  
  
“My lord,” Jory said, rising to his feet along with the other dozen or so of her father's guards in the hall.  
  
“You may be seated,” Eddard Stark replied. “Have the cooks made mention of when the food will be arriving? Vayon informs me that I am to meet with the Small Council rather early.”  
  
“Yes, Lord Stark,” Jory responded, before seating himself back down at the trestle table he shared with his men. “I was told that it will only be a few moments. Tomorrow, I'll make sure they prepare breakfast for your arrival more promptly.”  
  
Father just shook his head, as he approached their table.  
  
“It's fine, Jory. After two months on the Kingsroad, it does not surprise me that the staff might be a bit weary.”  
  
It certainly surprised Sansa. She was not weary at all. There was so much to do, so much to see. She had been so excited that she had spent half the night pacing around her room, imagining what it might be like to walk through the Red Keep's famed gardens or stroll through the white marble plaza of the Great Sept, peering up at its seven, crystal towers. Of course, Septa Mordane said that ladies were to sleep as their lord father instructed, so that they would be rested and fresh in the morning, but Sansa felt quite fresh anyway, and, when she closed her eyes, she had found little rest in her dreams.  
  
Unfortunately, as she looked around the hall, observing that even most of the guards who were awake for this early breakfast were rubbing sleep out of their eyes or yawning, Sansa realized that she was alone in her sentiments. Even Arya, who usually ran their poor septa ragged chasing after her, was blinking sleepily, as she petted her direwolf beneath their table. In truth, that was a pleasant change from the suspicious glares Arya usually cast her way these days, but it still left her feeling even more the odd one out: even odder than Arya.  
  
Feeling a bit troubled, Sansa idly kicked the leg of the bench where she had been seated, only for the entire bench to collapse, sending her sprawling backwards onto the ground. She barely managed to catch herself with her hands before the back of her head would have hit the stone floor. Even then, the stones scraped painfully against the palms of her hands, as Sansa heard her father cry out from across the table.  
  
“Sansa! Sansa, are you alright?”  
  
She wasn't. She'd fallen on the floor, scraped her hands, and had even gotten dirty. Then she noticed the worst part of all.  
  
“Father, my-my dress! It tore!”  
  
The hem of the beautiful, blue dress mother had made for her, which she had embroidered dancing fishes on herself, had caught on the wooden bench and ripped. Even if she tried to fix it, everyone would be able to tell. She felt tears welling up in her blue eyes.  
  
“Just your dress. Oh, thank the gods,” father replied, as he finally approached, having strode around the table.  
  
Hearing her own father thank the gods that her dress had been torn finally pushed Sansa over the edge, and a few fat tears rolled down her cheeks, as Eddard Stark pulled her to her feet. Placing his hands on her shoulders, her father knelt down before her, wearing a concerned expression.  
  
“There, there, Sansa. You're not hurt, are you?”  
  
She shook her head.  
  
“But my dress-”  
  
“Shush,” he interrupted. “You can get another dress, if there is a need for it.”  
  
Then he smiled in that way which meant that everything was going to alright.  
  
“But maybe not today. After all, you would not want to miss your tour of the Red Keep, would you?”  
  
Her tears had largely subsided by then, replaced by the occasional sniffle, but even those sniffles were banished by his words. She stared into her father's face with hopeful eyes.  
  
“Oh, father, do you mean it?”  
  
“Of course. If you wed Prince Joffrey, then this will be your home, Sansa, so you should know it well before then. I spoke to the king regarding this matter yesterday, and he has offered to have one of his men introduce you and Arya to the castle's sights. Tomard and Varly will accompany you, as well, of course, but my men could tell you only a little of the Red Keep.”  
  
That Arya would be accompanying her put a slight damper on Sansa's ebullience, but she was still thrilled enough that a wide smile stretched across her face.  
  
“Thank you, father,” she exclaimed, briefly wrapping her arms around him.  
  
Father's answering grin only made her smile wider, as he gently extricated himself from her hug and led her over to the other side of their trestle table, where servants had begun placing down bowls filled with steaming hot porridge.  
  
She noticed Arya peering at her out of the corner of her sister's eyes, but even Arya's ill-mannered behavior could not trouble her overmuch just then. Even the tear in her dress seemed only a small thing beside the prospect of finally seeing the grandest and noblest castle in all the Seven Kingdoms with her own eyes.  
  
Eating as quickly as was polite, she nearly skipped out of the Small Hall once breakfast was finished, hurrying to her room. Her dearest friend Jeyne Poole – who had arrived half way through breakfast, along with her father – followed only a handful of steps behind, giggling right along with Sansa, as they stripped off her ruined dress and then went in search of another for her to wear.  
  
“What about the white wool, Sansa? Did you mother not say it made you look like a snow maiden?”  
  
“I cannot wear wool in King's Landing, Jeyne. I am to be queen one day. But mayhaps I should wear Stark colors. Father is the Hand of the King, after all. Hmmm...”  
  
Sansa bit her lip uncertainly, sorting through the dresses the servants had lain out for them. Most of them were really too plain. She would just die if the queen saw her in one of them.  
  
“Sansa, Sansa! What about this one? Don't you think the dark grey silk would set off your hair splendidly? And the short sleeves... they're almost wicked.”  
  
They really were, and, once she had tried it on in front of the large, flat, silver mirror in her room, she realized that it outlined her developing shape far better than when she last wore it at Winterfell.  
  
“Oh Jeyne,” she exclaimed, clasping her lady-in-waiting's hands, “it's perfect. Thank you.”  
  
The two girls smiled at one another for a moment, brown eyes staring into blue, before Sansa turned to her friend's own needs.  
  
“Now, what about you, Jeyne? We can't have the maids come in to do our hair until you've picked out your gown too.”  
  
“I rather favour the black one with the gold hem.”  
  
Sansa smiled a bit wickedly.  
  
“The one you wore when Cley Cerwyn last came to visit, you mean? Well, it does bring out your eyes and pale skin, but poor Cley might be sad to learn you would show it off to another.”  
  
The two girls giggled together, and then returned to their work. When they finally finished, and went to join Arya – who might as well have just put on a sack for all the work she had put into her appearance – they discovered a very pleasant surprise awaiting them at the entrance to the Tower of the Hand.  
  
“My ladies,” the boy spoke with a shallow bow, his white teeth shining, “while I recognize you from Winterfell, I do not believe we have had the pleasure of being formally introduced.”  
  
Dipping into a curtsy automatically, Sansa was quick to answer.  
  
“Mayhaps not, but I could scarcely forget the king's golden squire, or a cousin to my betrothed.”  
  
The squire's lips twisted upwards in a satisfaction which lit up his green eyes, as Jeyne breathed in sharply. At least one of their party had clearly forgotten, although she did remember to curtsy. That still put Jeyne a step ahead of Arya, who actually scowled.  
  
“Your cousin's Joffrey?” she spat, as if that were some foul crime, and Sansa wished that Septa Mordane was here to scold her, rather than consulting with her colleagues at the Great Sept. As it was, she supposed it would be up to her to deal with Arya today. Seven give her strength.  
  
“We are, of course, all honored that you have agreed to escort us, Tyrek,” she declared, offering him her hand, which he proceeded to most gallantly kiss. “In truth, I have looked forward to seeing the White Sword Tower and godswood most ardently.”  
  
At least Arya seemed to perk up a bit at Sansa's mention of the Kingsguard's chambers, where the realm's noblest knights gathered. Mayhaps she hoped that one of them might mistake her for a boy and take Arya as a squire.  
  
“Then please follow me, my ladies.”  
  
A few hours and dozens of wonderful sights later, their tour finally neared its end. They had walked the Promenade of the Betrayer, overlooking the Blackwater, knelt before the Maiden in the Royal Sept, and had been introduced to five of the king's noble white swords. Then, Tyrek had a servant place a blanket down for their party, shaded beneath the leaves of a cluster of green-leaved, cottonwood trees, and they had been served the most delicious apple crumbles. Their guide even – at Arya's request – showed them the infamous chambers in Maegor's Holdfast where it was said that the great bastard Shiera Seastar had maintained her ageless beauty by bathing in the blood of innocent maidens.  
  
They were just leaving the throne room, in which her sister had bemoaned the lack of dragon skulls, while she wondered where the queen sat, when they had a most curious encounter.  
  
“Oh, and if it isn't our noble Hand's lovely daughters. What a pleasure it is to meet you.”  
  
Sansa's heart nearly burst out of her chest in shock when the man suddenly appeared from behind a pillar near the entrance to the throne room. How could all of them have missed him entering the room? Its ornate, wooden doors were thick, loud and closed.  
  
Varly and Tomard were already stepping forward, hands on their blades, when Tyrek recognized the mysterious figure and stuttered, “L-Lord Baelish.”  
  
Her father's guardsmen halted their advance, as the man raised his hands in a placating gesture.  
  
“My apologies. I did not mean to startle you. I was just pleasantly surprised by how much our future princess resembles her lady mother.”  
  
The man's grey-green eyes stared down at Sansa with a look that made her uncomfortable. Standing with the effortless confidence of a high lord, his handsome, dark-grey doublet, well-trimmed, pointed beard, and black hair, streaked with slight hints of grey, created an impression of neatness and competence. But, if only for a moment, his eyes held something else – something which she misliked.  
  
“She and I were quite close when we were younger. Did your mother ever mention me?”  
  
Sansa's throat had gone dry, so it fell to Arya to answer.  
  
“She didn't. How do you know our mother?”  
  
However, her tone was a bit too confrontational for dealing with a high lord, so Sansa was not surprised when Tyrek stepped between the pair, clearly trying to mediate.  
  
“My apologies, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya. I should have made proper introductions. This is Lord Petyr Baelish, the king's Master of Coin.”  
  
Sansa's back unconsciously straightened upon hearing the lord's title. This was one of the important lords who worked with father.  
  
“No, Tyrek,” Lord Baelish interjected. “It is I who should apologize for appearing without warning. In recompense, perhaps I might tell you a useful piece of news. If you had planned on visiting the luxurious apartments beside the Small Council's chambers, then you should know that they have been closed off. The body of Ser Chelsted was found on one of the upper floors, entirely drained of blood, and with strange wounds on his neck. The Grand Maester examines him right now, and that is no fitting sight for the eyes of young girls.”  
  
“I see,” the squire replied. “That is indeed ill news. Hopefully, the murderer will be dealt with soon.”  
  
“Yes,” Lord Baelish replied to Tyrek, but his eyes were back on her again. “One can only hope. Now then, I must apologize, but I need to get back to the Small Council meeting. Your father, my ladies, is something of taskmaster.”  
  
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Baelish,” she offered the man, along with a polite curtsy, while Arya just stared at the Master of Coin uncertainly.  
  
“The pleasure was all mine, my lady,” he replied simply, and then, with one final nod to her, Petyr Baelish strode away from their party, towards the throne room's exit.  
  
He was nearly at the door when he stopped for a moment, and turned to look back over his shoulder.  
  
“Oh. And one more thing, Lady Sansa. For a woman in your position, it might be wise to consult a few texts on the Harvest. My own work on that score is still incomplete, but, from what I've discerned, there will be little interest in selection this time, in favor of sheer quantity.”  
  
Then he was gone, his cape fluttering behind him, as the door to the throne room firmly shut. And Sansa was left to wonder: why did the Master of Coin want to talk to her about the coming harvest? She supposed that it was his job, particularly considering how long some feared the coming winter might prove, but would he not be better served consulting with her father?  
  
Not wanting to disturb either father or the good men investigating Ser Chelsted's death, Tyrek brought their tour to an end shortly after they met with Lord Baelish, and returned them to the Tower of the Hand.  
  
There, once again, she and her younger sister had little to do until father returned for their evening meal. Arya stayed in her room, playing with something which Sansa could hear making swishing sounds, as it cut through the air, while she and Jeyne quietly embroidered their respective sigils onto a pair of handkerchiefs. She did briefly consider asking Varly if she could visit the royal library, in order to search for a book on harvests – as she had grown quite bored by nightfall, when father still had not returned – but dinner time neared by then, so Sansa decided that investigating the Master of Coin's odd advice could wait for another day.  
  
In the end, father had not returned at all, simply sending a message that he would be delayed, and that they should eat their supper without him. Dinner itself was quite routine, with Nymeria making a nuisance of herself after having been cooped up in Arya's room all day, while she chatted with Jeyne about some of the prettier parts of the Keep. A bit more surprisingly, Arya did join their conversation occasionally, although Sansa thought that some of the things which seemed to have impressed Arya might not be entirely proper for young ladies to discuss. Even so, the meal was as pleasant as she ever found any meal, while Arya's hulking beast was around, harassing her.  
  
The real excitement came when she returned to her room and discovered that someone had left a secret note, folded closed, on her bed.  
  
_My Lady,_  
  
_I regret that I did not speak to you sooner, but, when I heard about your conversation with Lord Baelish, I knew that we had to meet immediately. Come alone to the Heart Tree in the Red Keep's godswood after dark. I will be there waiting for you._  
  
_J_  
  
At first, she had not known quite what to make of the letter. Father had told her not to leave the Tower of the Hand after supper time, and Sansa was very reluctant to disobey his command. Sneaking out of her room was the sort of thing Arya would do. It was not until her third time reading the note through that she realized the truth.  
  
_J._  
  
_J_ must have been for Joffrey! Oh, she was so stupid not to have seen it immediately. In that context, it all made sense, and she nearly wept happy tears at the emotions his letter had expressed. There was no need to be jealous of Lord Baelish, of course. He was far too old to be interested in her, but she still blessed the Master of Coin for reminding Joffrey that he loved her. And going before the Heart Tree alone... that was almost like a wedding. It was so romantic.  
  
She could not betray her sweet prince when he so earnestly sought her. He had been so cool to her for many days. Now that his heart warmed again, she could not scorn him. Surely, father would let her go. Sansa was certain that he would not object to true love.  
  
Unfortunately, her door guard, bound by Lord Stark's orders, proved less tractable, even when she tried to explain how important it was that she depart. Darron insisted that she wait until her father returned, but, as time ticked by without any sign of her father, she began to worry that her betrothed might leave before she arrived.  
  
If he had been cool to her before, how wroth would Joffrey be if she scorned his romantic invitation – especially when he feared that she had been unfaithful? He might even fight a duel to the death with Lord Baelish, in order to satisfy his wounded pride. Men did such things, after all, and, while the thought of such a duel fought over her hand made her heart race, she knew that neither her prince, nor the noble Lord Baelish truly deserved to be harmed over a simple misunderstanding.  
  
No, she eventually concluded. She could wait no longer. Father would understand, if she explained everything to him tomorrow morning. All she needed was a way to slip out of her chambers, past diligent Darron.  
  
Sansa's eyes caught on the window in her room, only five stories above the ground, and the long bed sheets father's servants had prepared for her. Then she smiled. She would be like a maiden from a song. Finally, Sansa turned towards her wardrobe. If she was to soothe her prince's pricked pride, then her dress would need to be absolutely perfect.


	3. Sansa III

 

**Sansa the Vampire Slayer**

 

**Sansa III**

  
In the songs, princesses oft escaped from towers by sliding down their bedsheets all the way to the ground. In practice, however, this proved easier dreamed than done, as Sansa's silk sheets barely extended down to two stories below her window. Worse, when she tried to rappel even that far down the side of the Tower of the Hand, the knot she had tied to her bedpost had come undone, and her fingers barely managed to catch hold of a nearby ledge before she plunged to her probable death.  
  
Fortunately, from there, swinging herself from one ledge to another, each lower down than the last, proved far easier than she ever would have expected. Sansa had initially been worried that she might fall, as her brother Bran had – the image of his silent, pale form engraved into her memory even after all these months – but instead found her progress little more difficult than patching up a tear in a pair of breeches. Of course, in daylight, when someone might have seen up her high-waisted, periwinkle blue skirts, she would never have dared do such a thing, but, in the darkness, she did not have to fear such dangers.  
  
Once she had completed her descent, Sansa's difficulties were largely at an end. The gold cloaks guarding the Red Keep were hardly going to stop a finely dressed noblewoman out for an evening stroll, when they noticed her at all. Half the time, the guards towards whom Sansa politely nodded did not even seem to see her, despite the bright torches they carried.  
  
In truth, she wondered about that a little, as she passed between the pair of guards standing on either side of the entrance to the Red Keep's godswood. Recently, she had noticed that her hearing and sight – particularly night vision – had greatly improved. Even in the faint light of the new moon, the guards' golden cloaks and mail appeared to almost shine, while their heavy boots seemed so loud to her ears that she wondered that they did not deafen themselves.  
  
Sansa suspected that it might be part of flowering, as mother had always said that involved some surprising changes, and always seemed to know when Sansa acted poorly, even if her daughter was far from Lady Catelyn's sight. That said, she had never expected these changes to be quite so swift. Sansa had not even had her first moon's blood yet. Some days, when her body felt like it belonged to a stranger, the eldest daughter of House Stark keenly missed her mother. If Lady Catelyn was here, then Sansa was sure that she would be able to make sense of it all.  
  
Unfortunately, Joffrey was not waiting for her, as he had promised, when she arrived at the great oak tree in the center of the godswood. Had he left already? Had her tardiness caused him to depart in bitterness? No. She would not believe that. Sansa had received his note less than two hours ago, after all.  
  
Seating herself upon the ground with her back against the Heart Tree's wide trunk, Sansa resolved to wait here until her prince arrived. Perhaps he had been suddenly called away for a brief spell or needed to use a chamber pot. There were many explanations for why Joffrey would not have appeared yet. And, if the godswood seemed a bit ominous at night, its tall trees casting long shadows, which shifted in the wind like the tentacles of a great kraken, then she just had to have faith in the royal family's watertight security. Certainly, no cutthroat would be so foolish as to test the defenses of House Baratheon. Well, she supposed there was that one murderer who slew Ser Chelsted earlier today, but father had likely apprehended him already. Right?  
  
The killer certainly could not be creeping up behind her, blood dripping from the rusty knife in his hand, as his yellowed teeth...  
  
A hand wrapped itself tight around Sansa's right ankle.  
  
With a terrified yelp, Sansa's left foot shot out, her toes bashing into the fingers of the dirt-encrusted, pale hand once, twice, and then her third kick finally dislodged the offending limb.  
  
“Let go!”  
  
But then a second hand shot up out of the dirt at her feet, and it was all she could do to scamper away on her hands and knees. Sansa's gorgeous, blue dress was getting horribly dirty, but she could scarcely bring herself to care. Her eyes wide as saucers, Sansa watched as a man, wearing a torn, green-white, checkered surcoat, haltingly pulled himself out of the ground, right before her eyes.  
  
As the man emerged from beneath the Earth, Sansa immediately noticed that there was something wrong with his face. His eyes were a sickly yellow, without eyebrows, and pronounced ridges protruded from his forehead. The worst were his teeth, though. They were fangs, even sharper and more-pointed than a direwolf's teeth, and, from the look on his face, she suspected that he was hungry.  
  
“S-Ser, are you well? I c-could take you to the maester's chambers,” she offered, her voice shaking.  
  
“I'm starving,” he growled, his eyes boring into her.  
  
“Or mayhaps the kitchens?”  
  
“And you look good enough to eat. Raaargh!”  
  
Then he lunged at her, and it was all Sansa could do to clumsily stumble out of his way.  
  
“Ser! Please!”  
  
She tried to run, but, in her fright, she forgot to lift the hem of her dress, and tripped over the garment, tumbling back into the large oak she had been seated against a moment ago. As she began struggling to her feet, the awful man was already turning to face her, grinning through bright, sharp teeth.  
  
“Nowhere left to run, my lady.”  
  
Her voice abandoned her. Sansa's body froze, as she shook, this beast in the skin of a man stalking towards her, until his fetid breath blew against her face. Gods. What was he going to do to her? He could do anything. Cut her, dishonor her: he might even be the murderer who slew brave Ser Chelsted. Sansa shut her eyes tight. She didn't want to die.  
  
“So young,” he hissed. “So, fresh and warm. So-urk!”  
  
She did not know what possessed her right arm to swing forward in an uppercut so powerful that it actually knocked her assailant two feet up into the air, or why her body then turned, and her leg lashed out in a high kick, which launched him more than fifteen feet away. All Sansa knew was that, when she opened her eyes, the brute threatening her had crashed into into the trunk of a large ash tree on the edge of the clearing with such force that its trunk had been dented by the impact. It should have been impossible, yet even more absurd was the fact that the man sent flying so far was already moving again. He seemed a bit groggy, but Sansa suspected that he would be back on his feet in mere moments.  
  
If she stayed here, Sansa would be at the villain's mercy. She had to run.  
  
Lifting her skirts, Sansa sprinted away from the brute with all the speed she could muster.  
  
“Help, help,” she screamed, hoping, nay praying, that anyone might hear her. And it was only then, a few dozen yards away from the clearing where she had left her assailant, that a savior appeared before her eyes, clad in a cloak of purest white.  
  
“Ser Jaime, thank the gods you're here!” she exclaimed, halting before the member of the Kingsguard. “There's- There's some kind of terrible villain pursuing me.”  
  
“Yes, I know.” His reply was oddly nonchalant, considering the news she had imparted. “I am the one who buried him there, after all. What I'm wondering is just where you think you're going?”  
  
“Ser Jaime, you...”  
  
She trailed off, her mind struggling to comprehend his reply.  
  
“You buried him there? But why would you do such a thing? Is that why he was so sick?”  
  
Ser Jaime was one of King Robert's Kingsguard, after all, with eyes like emeralds and hair like spun gold. Surely, he could not have taken any action so ill-seeming.  
  
“Sick?” Ser Jaime's tone was incredulous. “What do you mean sick? He died earlier today. I'm pretty sure you heard about it: Ser Emmon Chelsted, drained entirely of blood right beside the Small Council's chambers?”  
  
“Dead? I-I don't understand.”  
  
But Ser Jaime did not seem to be paying attention to her words anymore, as his eyes had fastened upon her empty hands, and then her terribly dirty, but, she liked to hope, still potentially salvageable, gown.  
  
“Speaking of questions, did you really not bring any dragon glass with you at all?” the knight asked a bizarre question, looking at her incredulously. “And why are you wearing that ridiculously poofy gown? You look like you're going to some sort of ball.” Giving Sansa a more thorough appraisal, he qualified his statement. “Well, maybe you fell in the mud on the way, but my point stands.”  
  
From terror, to relief, to righteous fury: her emotions seemed to be shifting rather swiftly tonight.  
  
“Ser! Just what kind of knight are you to speak to a lady in such a manner?”  
  
“Right, and here he comes.”  
  
He continued to pay her words little attention.  
  
“So, uh, here, take this,” Jaime Lannister said, placing something cool and metallic in her right palm.  
  
“What? I-”  
  
“And could you try to hurry it up a bit? With all that screeching you did, even the gold cloaks can't possibly have missed that something's going on over here.”  
  
But wasn't that good? The gold cloaks were the defenders of the city. Once they arrived, they could apprehend the villain, and she would be safe.  
  
Then, before she realized what he had planned, Ser Jaime spun her around, and pushed her straight towards the beast who he claimed was Ser Emmon Chelsted, armed with nothing more than a little bit of black glass with which to defend herself.  
  
The villain's right arm lashed out, his long, sharp fingernails arcing towards her eyes, while his left fist struck lower, aiming for her gut, but, somehow, both blows proved just a fraction to slow. Drawing upon instincts Sansa had not even realized she possessed, her body slid back beneath the head blow, before twisting around the body blow. Then she was inside his guard, her black dagger digging into the right side of the the brute's chest, as adrenaline pumped through her veins. Within her, some ancient power crowed at its victory.  
  
“Ow. That really hurt.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
Her head tilted upwards towards Emmon Chelsted's distorted visage.  
  
“I mean, seriously. You just stabbed through my right lung. Gods. I used to need that thing to breathe.”  
  
She could hear Ser Jaime Lannister cursing behind her, as she suddenly felt as if she might have made a small mistake.  
  
Then the blow came, twisting her head so far around that she briefly worried that it might fall off. Half her face aching like she had run into a wall, she caught sight of the black dagger Ser Jaime had placed into her hand, which the vampire's blow had wrenched out of his chest. Then, acting on instinct once more, Sansa blindly pushed the dagger forward and back into his chest, a couple of inches to the right.  
  
The last words she head from the vampire were, “Oh fuck,” and then she was falling forward through a thick cloud of dust and ashes, violently coughing as she breathed in a mouthful of ash. She was still coughing when Ser Jaime finally spoke again, having walked over, so that he stood above her.  
  
“You know, I have to say, I actually felt kind of embarrassed even watching that.”  
  
As her coughing subsided and the pace of her heart began to slow, Sansa stared up at Jaime Lannister with a furious scowl on her face.  
  
“You,” she began, before being interrupted by a coughing fit. “You threw me at him. A villain. Who wanted to hurt me!”  
  
“Well, to be strictly accurate, he was a vampire,” Jaime replied nonchalantly, scratching his cheek.  
  
“I-I could have died, ser!”  
  
“Well, if you'd been killed by that, you probably wouldn't have lasted a week, anyway, so you could just think of it as hastening the inevitable.”  
  
He said something that callous so casually. Sansa wanted to scream, or to summon forth a true knight to beat this false one until he begged for her forgiveness on bended knees.  
  
“Lasted? What do you mean lasted? As if I-”  
  
And then it hit her. She had just murdered a man: butchered him so completely that he turned to dust beneath her hands. Sansa's hand came up to cover her mouth, and then she wretched, first all over her hands, before covering the ground in front of Ser Jaime's feet with her dinner.  
  
“I-I killed...”  
  
She could not even bring herself to say the words.  
  
The false knight Ser Jaime sighed deeply.  
  
“Could you give me some warning the next time you do that? You almost mucked up my boots. And these are new.”  
  
That was when he finally seemed to hear the distant shouting, which Sansa had noticed half a minute ago.  
  
“Wait. What's that?”  
  
“Sansa! Sansa, where are you?”  
  
It was father's voice, and he was not alone. She could hear at least half a dozen boots stomping at his side.  
  
“Is that your father? Ned Stark? How could he possibly-”  
  
“Father's coming,” she interjected, her voice overflowing with relief. “He read the note and is coming to rescue me.”  
  
“The note? You don't mean the note I had secretly delivered to your room, do you?”  
  
For the first time that night, Ser Jaime seemed rather horrified. A small, wicked part of Sansa actually delighted in that, after how dismissively he had handled everything else.  
  
“Of course. If I did not leave him the note, then how would he know where I went? He might have gotten worried.”  
  
Then she actually registered what his words had revealed.  
  
“Wait. You were the one wrote that note? Not Joffrey?”  
  
“Joffrey? What? Why would Joffrey have-”  
  
“And you buried Ser Chelsted, as well, knowing I would be there.”  
  
Her eyes widened as she backed away from the knight of the Kingsguard.  
  
“Sansa! Sansa!”  
  
“Father!” she called out. “I'm here.”  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
Ser Jaime's hand shot forward like a striking snake, catching hold of her arm.  
  
“We still need to talk about the Harvest.”  
  
The harvest? He'd tried to see her murdered, and now he wanted to talk about crops? Besides, Ser Jaime was a member of the Kingsguard. What did he have to do harvests? Did he really expect her to believe that the White Swords would be trading in their blades for farmers' sickles? No. This was likely some sort of ruse, so he could sneak away with her and finish the job.  
  
“I'm not going anywhere with you! You-You false knight!”  
  
Ser Jaime grimaced, but let go of her arm, as he seemed to make out her father's approach.  
  
“Seven Hells.”  
  
Then he was running away like some sort of craven, mere moments before Eddard Stark emerged from the trees of the godswood, tailed by three Stark guardsmen. His expression was stern and forbidding right up until he caught sight of Sansa, his eyes widening in shock.  
  
“Sansa, what happened?”  
  
And Sansa abruptly realized that she was covered in mud, dust, ash and vomit, while wearing one of her finest gowns, in the middle of a forest. Oh, and half her face was probably swelling up like a blueberry, after she had been struck by that brute. She sniffled.  
  
“Father, it was terrible,” she exclaimed, shooting forward to wrap her arms around his reassuring bulk. As her father's breath hitched, she realized that she might have been squeezing too tightly and loosened her hold. “I'm so glad you're here.”  
  
After a long moment in which she happily sobbed, while father patted her back, he finally placed one of his hands gently beneath her chin, and turned Sansa's head up to look into his eyes.  
  
“Sansa, I am glad that you safe, but I still need to know what has happened here. You are injured and...” He paused for a moment, clearly reluctant to continue, considering her current state. “There will have to be a punishment, as well.”  
  
She nodded  
  
“I understand, father. I'm so sorry.”  
  
Then she explained everything. How she had been waiting for her beloved Joffrey when the corpse of Ser Emmon Chelsted had climbed out of the ground beneath the Heart Tree and tried to gore her with his fangs; how Ser Jaime had appeared to put a dagger in her hands; how she and Ser Emmon had dueled to the death, before she put her dagger through his lungs and heart, turning him into a cloud of dust.  
  
“But I didn't mean to kill him father... Again.” She hesitated, not certain how to deal with the idea that the Ser Emmon who assailed her was apparently the same one who the Grand Maester declared dead earlier that day. Arya might sometimes call her stupid, but Sansa knew very well that dead people did not usually get better. “I mean, not even the second time I stabbed him. It was an accident. My body just moved all on its own.”  
  
Father wore a concerned and sympathetic expression by then – much better than Ser Jaime's expression had been. However, it seemed like there was also something skeptical in his gaze. Maybe she was just imagining that, though, as father surely must believe her.  
  
“Of course, Sansa,” he replied. “You have obviously had a difficult night, so we will discuss your punishment on the morrow. Varly, take Sansa to see the Grand Maester. Wake him, if you must. I would appreciate it if he treated her injuries and...” Father seemed to be searching for the right words. “Searched for any head injuries or fever.”  
  
Well, she did have a head injury, but why would he think she had a fever? Her head shot up again, as she realized what her father was implying.  
  
“Father, I'm not lying.”  
  
He offered her a reassuring smile, but she could see something else in his eyes. Skepticism. Doubt.  
  
“Father-”  
  
“Sansa, it would be best if you spoke to the Grand Maester. He has great experience in these matters, and will certainly be able to counsel you well. As for whatever frightened you, do not let it trouble you anymore, child. I will have my men see to it.”  
  
“But father,” she tried to object, yet Varly was already leading her away.  
  
Father did not believe her. She had told the truth, and he had not believed her at all. Instead, he was sending her to the Grand Maester, as if she had been afflicted with some sort of madness. She moped. If even father had not believed her, then what chance was there that the Grand Maester would heed her tale?


	4. Sansa IV

**Sansa the Vampire Slayer**

 

**Sansa IV**

  
“So, you see, Lady Sansa,” the Grand Maester continued his explanation, before he was briefly interrupted by his own sickly coughing. “That is why only the most trustworthy, the most reliable, only the most vigorous of men can be permitted to know these secrets.”  
  
Grand Maester Pycelle – with his rheumy, bloodshot eyes and bald, spotted head – did not exactly strike Sansa as the most vigorous of men, but perhaps he had more vigor in his youth. He certainly did seem to know a lot about vampires, and he had been unfailingly kind to Sansa since she had arrived in his chambers.  
  
First, he had two of his serving girls bring a wooden tub, filled with steaming, jasmine-scented water, into the room for Sansa, so that she could wash off all the muck and grime which had accumulated during her travails in the godswood. Then, while she saw to refreshing herself, he had procured a lovely, thick, pink, silk robe for her to wear, in place of her ruined gown. After all that, the iced milk and delicious fruits he had offered Sansa had just been icing on the cake.  
  
By the time he had started talking about vampires, forces of darkness, and so on, she had almost felt like Lady Sansa Stark again. If not for the Grand Maester's fantastical claims, like something out of an old story, she might almost have convinced herself that everything which happened to her that night, right up until she seated herself before the Grand Maester, had been an elaborate nightmare.  
  
Sansa slipped a piece of the sweet, Dornish, blood-orange she had just finished peeling into her mouth, savoring its rich, sweet juices, as they washed over her tongue. After her stressful night, she needed something sweet.  
  
“Now, I will admit that Ser Jaime may have been a bit, erm, rash, but no doubt he had the best of intentions.”  
  
“He threw me at a vampire.”  
  
She thought that this point was rather important.  
  
“Hm, yes, yes, very unfortunate that. However, the Harvest will have many dangers. No doubt, your previous watcher spoke to you of the signs of its coming.”  
  
Previous watcher?  
  
“I'm sorry Grand Maester, but I'm afraid that I don't understand.”  
  
The elderly man frowned at her response, and peered down towards a piece of paper on his cluttered desk. Then his frown turned up into a fond smile at whatever he had read there.  
  
“Ah, yes. I mean the Lady Nan, of course: a legend, really, and quite comely in her youth. I had the good fortune to meet her once long ago, during King Aegon's reign. It was during the Tourney of...”  
  
_Lady Nan?_ Sansa wondered, as the Grand Maester continued with his tale.  
  
The only Nan Sansa knew was an elderly serving woman named Old Nan – definitely not any sort of lady. Sansa did recall that the ancient woman had tried to teach her a few tumblers' tricks when Sansa was very young, and the serving woman did always tell the most frightening stories. Many of them were a bit too frightening for Sansa's tastes, really.  
  
However, around the time when Sansa turned six, Old Nan had started getting a bit dotty, even mistaking Sansa for her grandson Hodor at times. And Sansa would never forget the time when the crone had seized seven year-old Arya's hands in a vice grip and fiercely demanded, “Alysanne, make your choice. Are you ready to be strong?” Robb had laughed so hard at the expression on Arya's face that Sansa had been worried he might pass out.  
  
Perhaps, the Grand Maester meant some other Nan. She certainly seemed to be a lady whom he held in high esteem.  
  
“Such long, silky hair. And the curve of her... Mm. If only, if only...”  
  
However, while reluctant to interrupt the Grand Maester's musings, Sansa had more pressing concerns than the identity of some old lady whom she could not even recall formally meeting.  
  
“But, I still don't see why I cannot tell father about all this: vampires, the Others and such things. Father is trustworthy, reliable and vigorous. He's the Hand of the King. And, surely, if the Grand Maester supported my words, then he would have to believe me.”  
  
“Lady Sansa,” the elderly maester replied, before stopping for a moment, in order to choose his words carefully, “our noble Hand has many cares. He is to take care of the entirety of the realm, along with the good King Robert. That is why, long ago, the gods decreed that small matters like these should be left to, erm, other of the king's humble servants.”  
  
“The Seven decreed it?”  
  
Sansa's eyes grew very wide. Of course, she knew that the gods did not make declarations themselves. They worked their will through their avatar – the High Septon. Even so, mother and Septa Mordane had always taught her that the High Septon's words should be treated with the utmost gravity, lest one offend the gods and be struck down.  
  
“Erm, yes. I-I believe that it was one of the High Septons appointed by King Baelor the Blessed: a very devout king, indeed.”  
  
Of course Sansa knew of King Baelor's piety. The gods had so loved him that an entire pit full of starving vipers had bowed their heads at his coming, rather than risk biting him. Each knew that the Seven would strike it down if a single drop of that serpent's venom had touched Baelor's blessed skin. No doubt any High Septon he appointed would have had an equal share in the gods' favor.  
  
“I see.”  
  
That was troubling. Perhaps, she could petition the current High Septon for an exemption. After all, did the Seven not also say that daughters should honor and be truthful to their fathers?  
  
She bit into another piece of her orange, still sweet, but a bit tougher and more tart the last.  
  
“Good. So, that should be most of it, child. Do you have any questions?”  
  
Swallowing the piece of orange in her hand, Sansa bit her lip uncertainly for a moment, not wanting to appear presumptuous. However, she also felt it important that she not let the Grand Maester labor under misconceptions any longer. He had asked if she had any questions, after all.  
  
“I'm very sorry, Grand Maester, but-”  
  
“Oh, there's no need for apologies child,” he interrupted Sansa before she could finish her sentence.  
  
“No, please, Grand Maester. You have been very kind to me, but I fear that there's been some sort of terrible mistake. You see, I am to marry Prince Joffrey and be the queen. King Robert has decreed that I am to love him and bear him strong sons.”  
  
“Oh, well, yes, I suppose that, if you live long enough, there may be a wedding. However, it is exceedingly unlikely that you would survive to bear a son without some creature of the Others or another tearing the child out of your womb, and then choking you to death with your own entrails. Very unfortunate that. You have my condolences, Lady Sansa.”  
  
Sansa's mouth had fallen open at the Grand Maester's graphic description of her potential fate, her hand frozen inches away from another piece of the blood orange Pycelle had offered her.  
  
“But-But-”  
  
“However, you should take pride in the good service you will do for the realm. Your life will be short and filled with pain, but, if you persevere, it may yet be a meaningful one. There are few in this land who can say as much.”  
  
Sansa's right hand fell away from the blood-orange on the Grand Maester's desk, joining her left hand in her lap.  
  
“I-I-No. You see, Grand Maester, that is why I cannot be this Slayer person. I am to serve the realm by bearing Joffrey good sons, after all. The king said so. And-And the future Lord of the Seven Kingdoms must have heirs, must he not?”  
  
“Oh, well yes, certainly. But you need not fear for the kingdoms, Lady Sansa. You have a younger sister, after all, and, if she does not meet with the prince's approval, Margaery Tyrell is also said to be a rose in the bloom of maidenhood.”  
  
“No.” Her voice sounded a bit more desperate now, and the Grand Maester seemed to have finally noticed her discontentment, peering up at her with worried eyes. “Arya doesn't even like Joffrey. It's not-She can't-”  
  
“Lady Sansa, this is a great honor. Eh, here, why don't you have some more iced mil-”  
  
“No!”  
  
A fit of madness must have seized her then, as both her hands slammed down hard on the Grand Maester's desk. Then, to Sansa's utter horror, the table splintered in two at her blow, sending dozens of hefty tomes, devices, and many hundreds of papers flying through the room.  
  
“Lady Sansa!” the Grand Maester shouted furiously through the storm of paper, but she could hardly hear him. All Sansa could do was stare numbly at her impossibly strong hands.  
  
“ _She alone will wield the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, the Others and the forces of Winter,” the Grand Maester had pompously declared._  
  
“The strength...” A half-dozen incidents over the past few weeks flashed through her head: the door of a wheelhouse, torn off its hinges, a scarf, which she accidentally ripped in half, a collapsed bench, a vampire flying fifteen feet away, her father, wincing at her strength, as she hugged him, and now this table.  
  
“The skill...” Inexplicable abilities, which she had never even contemplated training before, came to mind: skillful climbing, punches, dodging, spin kicks, high kicks, stabbing.  
  
“No,” she begged, but her tone was no longer furious or disbelieving. It was mournful. And then she ran.  
  
Away from the Grand Maester's shouts, evading the strong hands of her guardsman Varly, and forcing her way past the Stark men who guarded the Tower of the Hand's entrance, Sansa sprinted, as if all the devils of the Seven Hells were nipping at her heels, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She didn't want vampires, and pain, and some monster strangling her to death with her own entrails. She wanted Joffrey, and pretty babes, and a golden crown. Mother and father had promised. The king had said. So, why...?  
  
Sansa was still sobbing when she threw open the door to her room with such force that the door bounced back off the tower's stone walls and struck her arm. She barely noticed the impact, however, as she was already running towards her bed, determined to ignore anything which might try get in the way of lying down there and sobbing into her pillow until she could fall asleep and escape this awful nightmare. Unfortunately for Sansa, the dark-haired girl seated beside her grey-furred wolf pup on Sansa's bed was not inclined to be ignored.  
  
“Where have you been?” Arya demanded. “And don't lie! I-Are-Are you crying?”  
  
But she could not deal with Arya right now. She could not deal with anyone, and, most of all, definitely not Arya.  
  
“Get out!”  
  
Her younger sister's expression had grown a bit uncertain at the sight of Sansa's tears, but her shout was enough to put a mulish expression back on Arya's stupid, horsey face.  
  
“I-I won't. Not until you tell- Hey! Put me down!”  
  
She would not. If her awful sister wanted to complain, then she and her ugly mutt could do so from the hallway. Holding Nymeria by the scruff of her neck with her right hand, while her left hand, having taken hold of the back of Arya's dressing gown, held her younger sister a foot off the ground, Sansa carried the pair to her door, pointedly ignoring their growling and whining. Then she firmly set the pair down outside her room, and shut the door in their faces, barring the door with its crossbar, in order to make sure that they stayed out.  
  
No doubt, the pair howled and screeched at their treatment. No doubt, servants and guards came and pounded at her door, demanding to be let inside. But Sansa heard none of them. They were little more than a distant, noisy clamor. As Sansa lay in her bed, tears staining her fluffy, royal blue pillow, all she could hear were the Grand Maester's awful words, echoing in her ears again and again.  
  
That night, Lady Sansa dreamt that she was a wildling, dressed in rough-spun furs. Though she protected her clan by hunting the blood drinkers, her own folk feared her for that, naming her an abomination – blood of the Others. That was until the night when the true Others came: the night when her own father, his eyes bright and blue, tried to put his spear through her heart. He failed, and he burned, but he was not alone, unlike her.  
  
Before the sun rose, a pair of pale blue, crystal swords pinned her to the icy ground of the village which had been her home. One impaled her spear arm, and the second her torso, as ruby red blood leaked out of her body. She could not run, and she could not fight – her legs too weak to even kick at her assailants – when the beautiful, ethereal monster, his flesh as pale as milk, leaned down and pressed his lips against her own.  
  
Something dripped from his mouth into hers, in that frozen kiss – a chill which swept through her entire body, consuming every bit of warmth. But she was not dying. Somehow, she could tell. She was being reborn.  
  
A couple of hours after she had fallen asleep, Sansa Stark awoke to her father demanding that his daughter open her door, feeling as if she would never be warm again.


End file.
